Fearless
by evening spirit
Summary: Jemma is afraid. But then she learns that the monster haunting her dreams is nothing but a broken tool.


**A/N: **Sorry it's so disjointed. But it kind of fits. This story, my idea about Jemma and her emotions resulting from the trauma Ward caused her, about how she could see the human in him again, because that's all I want right now, no excusing, no forgiveness – this story finally came to me after someone pointed out that in the promo – it seemed – Ward was kept in a padded cell. And you know what padded cell entails – that he was a danger to himself. This story is based on that concept.

**Vesperass-Anuna**, thank you for your support. *hugs*

* * *

**Fearless**

* * *

_"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them. Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it."_  
**~Rabindranath Tagore**

* * *

Jemma is afraid, of course, who can blame her. They are bringing him in, because he has intel on Hydra that Talbot refuses to share. The General says that interrogations had no effect, that he hadn't spoken, hadn't spilled the secrets and Coulson, his face twisted, corners of his mouth so far down, he looks like an angry dog, sneers, "What do they know about interrogation, anyway?"

That trust she used to have for Coulson feels like ash between her fingers.

Oh, Coulson says that they will be protected, that May, Hunter and Trip won't let him get to her, to Fitz. Poor Fitz who tries so hard but his fingers are clumsy, his eyes won't focus, his temper is short. He can still calculate large numbers in his head, ideas come more than ever before but he doesn't have the patience, the drive to turn those ideas into something real. Everything he touches crumbles to pieces and he's angry, so angry all the time.

She's not angry. She's past angry. "The pod was supposed to float." Fitz said it so many times already, screamed it at her, spitting saliva all over her face. "Ward knew it, he knew it!" She finally believed. Well, maybe not. Maybe she convinced herself that she believed, because she doesn't want to argue with Fitz. There's reasons enough to argue anyway, ten, fifty, hundred reasons in a minute. He's always angry. Damage to the hippocampus area.

She doesn't have the strength to hate either. Hate requires passion; Skye hates him, she hates him enough for the whole team. She and May. Jemma misses Skye. They used to be friends. She misses May too, her silent support, her Zen. Now there's always Skye and May and hate. They fuel it in each other. Jemma doesn't have enough fire in her, so she steps away.

Maybe she's lost the ability to feel – she wondered not long ago, but no. No, because when she hears the news, it hits her like a proverbial ton of bricks - fear. She feels fear.

His face on the other side of the enforced glass. "He doesn't care," she said then, but inside her head she screamed, "Please! Please-please-please snap out of it! Contradict me! This is supposed to make you contradict me." She didn't know the pod was supposed to float. She knew, but she didn't remember. When they started to fall, she was certain he had just murdered them. And the last thing she saw, was his face.

When Trip tells her they're bringing him in, she sees his face again, on the other side of the enforced glass. And she feels her stomach rise to her throat, like then, like when she was falling.

"Jemma? Jemma, breathe!"

She dreams about it that night. About him, about his face, his quiet whisper, "have it your way."

He murdered them.

"The pod was supposed to float. Ward knew it."

No.

* * *

Maybe she won't see him. Maybe his face won't haunt her dreams. Maybe...

It's not going to happen. She's in the lab corridor when they lead him to his cell. He's shackled, seems taller, he's so thin, he grew a beard and it's tousled, like that of a pirate, angry and dangerous, the scar on his right cheek bloodshot, his eyes dark, deep in their sockets. There's Lance in front of him, two guards on each side, Trip and Skye in the rear. They all have guns – he doesn't. He's shackled, his hands fastened in front of him, chain going down to his feet, that are chained too. He can't do anything to her, he can't get to her.

And yet, the sight of him terrifies her so much, she gasps, can't breathe, she sees his face on the other side of the enforced glass and she feels like falling and she drops the glass she was holding and runs, runs until Coulson's arms grab her and close in their protective embrace and she sobs into his arm.

It takes her fifteen minutes to calm down enough to be able to utter words.

"I don't want to see him ever again."

* * *

But she sees him every night in her dreams.

And intel is more important than her comfort, Coulson apologizes to her, but he states firmly that they are all making sacrifices. Of course. She will make that one, then, it's not a problem, sir.

"If you need anything, talk to May. She helped Skye deal with her trauma, maybe she'll help you too."

That trust she had for either of them is like a dust in the wind. Going, going, gone.

She would have left the base a long time ago, if it wasn't for Fitz. Even though she has no identity anymore, even though her parents think she's dead. She would have left. But he needs her, because he loves her and she's the only one who can put up with his outbursts of anger. "I want to talk to him! He has to explain! There is a reason, there has to be a reason!"

"Coulson talks to him, Fitz." Jemma puts both her hands on his arms, makes him sit down. She feels his entire body tremble. It's so hard to control those raging feelings. It's like berserker staff, she remembers. Biochemical reaction, only not resulting from magic, from science they don't understand. This is the science she knows, medicine, brain damage. It can't ever be fixed, because there's no magic component that could be magically eliminated.

She promises to keep an eye on Coulson's interrogations. Because that's what Fitz needs.

At first May tells her that she can't. Then she tells her that she shouldn't. Then she says there's nothing to look at. It turns out Coulson's interrogation techniques aren't any better than Talbot's. He still didn't spill any secrets.

"Maybe he really doesn't know," May says grimly, as they both stand in front of a screen that shows the interior of the cell. He's in the cell alone after Coulson have left. He sits at the table, hands in his lap, back hunched.

"Why is there a paper and a pen?" Jemma asks.

"He cannot speak. Broken larynx that didn't heal properly."

Jemma gags, her own throat suddenly constricted. She runs out of the room and vomits into the bin in the corridor. What kind of interrogations was Talbot conducting?

After that she sometimes comes into the observation room alone, when no one else is there and she watches him in his cell. They will move him out soon, most likely. Back to the military prison. He's useless to them.

He's useless.

He sits all days on the cot in the corner, or at the table if they want to talk to him. Jemma has never seen an interrogation, because if there's someone asking questions, there's always an observer there, too and she doesn't want them to know she's coming.

She doesn't know why she's coming. She doesn't know why she needs to look at him sitting there, useless. Desolate.

Miserable

The sight of his hunched form, thin limbs, messy beard and shadowed eyes doesn't make her happy, doesn't give her satisfaction. She looks for bruises on his neck but they have long faded. She doesn't feel the delight of revenge.

She doesn't feel afraid either, anymore and that realization finally makes her lighter, makes her about ready to smile.

* * *

There is a commotion near Ward's cell. Jemma knew that they were supposed to take him back to the military prison any day now, so she thinks this is about that. It's strange though, because neither May nor Lance, nor Trip are in the base at the moment. Not even Skye is here, they all left on a mission, because some lab came up on their radar, something in connection with Ian Quinn. Who is supposed to escort Ward then?

Coulson runs out of Ward's cell, not wearing his jacket, his tie askew, shirt half-untucked, droplets of blood on it. His face mad.

He's left the door ajar.

Jemma is careful as she approaches, but she's not afraid. She thinks, should I close that door? Should I...

She hears ragged, whizzing breath.

She enters.

Ward is on the floor, curled up in a ball. She can see his back, one elbow sticking out from under him, short hair on his head. He's shaking. She comes near, quietly, reaches to touch him and hesitates. Remembers how he often flinched when touched unexpectedly. In the state he is now... He might not only perceive it as something unpleasant. He might see it as a threat and he might lash out.

"Ward?" She crouches at a safe distance. Speaks, instead of touching.

He jumps up anyway. Scrambles away from her until his back is pressed against the wall. He has a bruise forming on his cheek and split lip. She can clearly see the moment he recognizes her – it's not immediately, it takes time. And then his face shifts, changes as if a storm of emotions rages through it. Horror, shame, pain, regret. Begging, pleading and complete lack of faith, lack of hope. Finally followed by emptiness so encompassing Jemma can't help but feel sorry for him.

She realizes he's broken. He's so thoroughly and utterly broken, there isn't much of a person left. And Jemma wonders, why?

* * *

Hunter is dead, Trip is badly injured and May and Skye are in Ian Quinn's hands.

They don't have much choice. Coulson has very few people he may call to arms, even less of them truly capable fighters. The enemy is powerful; they won't be overpowered with force. Coulson needs someone who has skill. He has one shot at this.

"You can't trust him," Isabelle Hartley seethes.

"You haven't seen him when I told him Quinn had Skye," Coulson replies.

Jemma sees Ward when Coulson gives the order to get Skye back. She sees how his pose straightens, his fists clench at his sides, muscles around his mouth shift when he grits his teeth and presses his lips together. There's a spark in his eyes now. It's not healthy; it rather looks half-mad, but it's in such stark contrast to the dull emptiness Jemma saw in them earlier, it makes her heart ache.

"Can I trust you to save Skye?" Coulson asks, almost begs and Jemma has never seen him so desperate before.

Her trust and faith in Coulson are entirely nonexistent now. Maybe she should feel something else, some worry perhaps, but she only feels contempt.

But then Ward answers.

He grunts a "Yes!" in a voice that is half-whisper, half scratch of fingernails on the chalkboard. There's enough determination in this one syllable to assure them of his devotion, and more. He will give his life if that's what it takes, to save Skye.

And Jemma is afraid all over again, except this time she's not afraid of him. She is afraid for him.

* * *

.end


End file.
